


Friend Is A Four Letter Word

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn Fabray meets Santana Lopez on the first day of second grade, during recess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friend Is A Four Letter Word

Quinn Fabray meets Santana Lopez on the first day of second grade, during recess.

Quinn is sitting on the swings, dragging her toe through the dirt, writing her name, minding her own business and she only looks up because there’s a loud commotion over by the slides.

Noah Puckerman is on the ground and some girl Quinn has never before is standing over him, hands on her hips. Quinn watches the girl pull her leg back and kick Noah in the side, smirking as she does. Ms. Nash grabs the girl by the arm before she can do it again, pulling her away from the boy on the ground, towards the swings; towards Quinn.

“Santana, I don’t know what kind of behavior was allowed at your old school, but we don’t allow fighting  _here_ ,” Ms. Nash says, her voice rising in anger.

The Santana girl doesn’t say anything; she stares at Ms. Nash the way that Quinn’s mom sometimes looks at the Mary Kay ladies who come over: like her time is being wasted. Ms. Nash looks like she wants to yell more, but she looks towards the slide and sighs instead. “Stay right here. We’ll talk about your punishment after I take Noah to the nurse’s office.”

Quinn watches Santana rolls her eyes as soon as Ms. Nash’s back is turned. Santana kicks out again, sending up a cloud of dust.

When Quinn coughs, Santana whips around, fists raised. “What?” she asks, taking a step towards Quinn.

Quinn draws a circle in the sand. “I only coughed.”

Santana doesn’t seem like she cares. “I’ll hit you too.”

“You wouldn’t hit a girl.”

“I’m a girl too, so it doesn’t matter if you’re a girl,” Santana says.

Quinn’s mouth drops open. “You’d really hit me?”

Santana frowns and her fists lower slightly. “Well,” she hesitates. “I guess not.”

Quinn nods like she already knew that, but she breathes out a sigh of relief. “You should have waited until school got out. That way, Ms. Nash wouldn’t have caught you.”

Santana tilts her head. “Yeah?”

“Last year, I kicked him so hard he cried but the bell already rang and we were waiting for our parents,” Quinn says. “What he’d do to you?”

Santana folds her arms over her chest and growls, “He pulled my hair.”

Quinn nods, because she knows how hard Noah can pull hair. She cross her fingers behind her back and sticks her hand out, silently offering up a prayer that this Santana girl really  _won’t_  hit her. “I’m Quinn Fabray.”

Santana eyes the hand warily, but puts her own hand out and grab’s Quinn’s. “Santana.”

“What’s your last name?”

“What’s it matter?” Santana snaps, her head dropping almost immediately. “Sorry” she mumbles. “Lopez. Santana Lopez.”

Quinn’s fingers behind her back untangle in relief. “If we’re going to be friends, you’re going to have to stop yelling at me.”

Santana frowns. “We’re going to be friends?”

“Well, yeah,” Quinn says. She points at the empty swing next to her, “Come on. I bet I can swing higher than you can.”

“I bet you can’t,” Santana counters, already pumping her legs.

Quinn thinks this is the start of a funny kind of friendship.

\---

Her mom is excited she has a new friend so she doesn’t have to sit alone at recess or lunch anymore.

“Oh, Quinn, that’s wonderful,” she coos when Quinn tells her that she needs two cupcakes for lunch the next day. “Russell, did you hear that?”

Her daddy nods his head approvingly and lifts Quinn onto his knee. “Maybe you should invite her over for dinner. What do you say?”

Quinn doesn’t think Santana is the type of friend you should invite over for dinner, so she says she’ll think about and her daddy likes that answer; he smiles and kisses her on the forehead and she runs up to her room to pick out her dress for tomorrow.

At school, Santana sits next to her in class. “Want to come over for dinner on Friday?”

Santana doesn’t look like she wants to say yes, but she does anyway.

On Friday, Santana leaves the Fabray’s with an evil little grin and her daddy tells her that it’s nice she has friends, but maybe Santana shouldn’t come over anymore.

Quinn’s okay with that, she tells Santana on the phone the next day. “I like your house better anyway,” she says, even if she’s never been there before.

Santana makes a noise that sounds like “ _okay_ ” and next weekend, she sleeps over Santana’s for the first time and she loves it, because it’s loud and bright and Santana’s dad makes shapes out of the pancakes and gives her a special Q one.

Friday nights at the Lopez’s become a sort of tradition and Quinn lives for them.

\---

“Finn Hudson gave me a valentine.” Quinn holds the sloppily made card out towards Santana who barely looks up from her math worksheet.

“Finn Hudson had a potato head,” she says dully.

Quinn frowns, ready to open her mouth and tell Santana,  _again_ , not to insult people, but Brittany, the new girl, gets there first.

“That’s not nice.”

Santana’s head snaps up, her mouth pulled back in a sneer and Quinn wants to tell Brittany that she shouldn’t have done that, but when Santana sees who is talking her, Quinn watches her snarl fade away.

Quinn’s not sure what that means.

“Yeah, well,” Santana mumbles, “it’s the truth.”

“You should try and be nicer,” Brittany continues.

Quinn’s stomach clenches in fear; she actually liked Brittany, as dim as she seems, and she doesn’t Santana to make her go away, the way Santana got rid of Christina Larsen.

Santana only laughs, though, it’s not even a mean laugh, really. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“I don’t know how to,” Brittany says seriously.

“She means that you shouldn’t count on her being nice,” Quinn explains. “She’s allergic to it.”

Santana makes a face. “I get hives.”

Brittany looks between the slowly and eventually smiles brightly. “That’s okay. My mom has special lotion.”

Quinn can’t help but think that if Christina Larsen had said anything like that, Santana would have kicked her in the shin.

She’s surprised when Santana only smiles back.

\---

Quinn waits until they make it up to Santana’s room and the door is shut behind them before she rounds on Santana, poking her hard in the shoulder.

Santana scowls and rubs at the spot. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s  _yours_?” Quinn snaps. “You pretty much ruined my chances of getting onto the cheering squad.”

“What do you want to be a cheerleader for anyway?”

Quinn’s eyes flash. “My sister was a Cheerio.”

“We made fun of your sister,” Santana points out.

“Because we were stupid. Cheering is important.”

Santana laughs humorlessly. “You sound like your mom.”

Quinn’s voice drops low as she steps forward, forcing Santana back until the brunette is sitting on her bed with her head tilted back up towards Quinn, eyes wide. “I  _need_  to be on that squad, do you understand? It’s  _expected_  of me.”

“So what are you saying?” Santana asks. “You’re going to stop being my friend if you don’t make it?”

Santana must take her silence as a  _yes_  because she sighs and rolls her eyes in a way that Quinn has learned to mean Santana doesn’t understand, or agree, but  _okay_. She grabs Quinn by the wrist and Quinn lets herself be pulled down until they’re sitting side by side. Santana rocks to the left, bumping their shoulders. “If you want on the squad, we’re getting on that squad, definitely.”

It’s a more reassuring statement that any pep talk her mother has ever given her.

\---

“Have you been kissed yet?”

Santana’s question catches her off guard and the nail polish brush slips, painting her ring finger Cheerio red.

“Have  _you_?”

Santana ignores her. “You would have told me, right?”

Her answer should be  _yes_. They’re best friends and best friends tell each other everything, but Santana keeps talking, not letting her answer.

“Because I would tell you,” Santana pauses and looks away. “I’m telling you.”

Quinn’s head, which was dropping to focus on her nails, snaps back up. “You’ve been kissed?”

Santana nods and while Quinn thought she’d be grinning, the brunette is biting her lip and clenching her hands so tightly that her knuckles are white.

“Who?” Quinn asks, not even sure if she wants the answer; she already has an idea of what the answer is.

She sees the way Brittany looks at Santana and she sees the way Santana can’t look away from Brittany; sees the way Brittany’s always within Santana’s reach; sees the way Santana scowls a little less around Brittany; sees the way Brittany can calm down Santana in a way that Quinn never could.

“You don’t want to know,” Santana says slowly, her gaze lingering on Quinn’s face. “It’s okay.”

Quinn slides off Santana’s bed and drops down next to her friend, reaching out to touch her, but pulling her hand back. “No, tell me.”

When Santana whispers  _Brittany_ , Quinn still feels something cold wash over her and even though she smiles and tries to giggle – but fails – and that night, they don’t talk about much of anything; Quinn rolls over and closes her eyes and doesn’t sleep.

\---

Things change there, because Quinn was raised one way and Santana has taken a different path.

They still command the school, terrifying teachers – Mr. Schuester is just  _too_  easy – and putting cannon fodder like Rachel Berry in their places constantly, but Quinn walks down the hall half a step ahead of Santana, ignoring that Brittany is stealing away her best friend and she’s just letting it happen.

At their first high school party, Quinn leaves Santana on her own and later doubles back on the handlebars of Finn’s bike to pick Santana up who is upset because Puck kissed her and Brittany saw it and Brittany left too.

“What am I going to do?” Santana slurs, cradled in Finn’s big arms. Finn looks at Quinn, but she only shrugs and says that Santana is drunk; she really has no idea what she’s saying anyway.

Later, when Quinn is awkwardly undressing a surprisingly quiet Santana – because Finn looked at her funny when she said that she was just going to leave Santana on her own, like she was supposed to do something other than that – she looks up and Santana is looking down at her with the same look on her face that she had when she told Quinn that her grandfather had died; that firm line of her mouth and the grim expression in her eyes.

“You hate me.”

Quinn’s hands slip on the button of Santana’s jeans. “I don’t,” she says.

It’s not convincing to either of them.

“I can’t help it though,” Santana whispers, her voice heavy and choked. “I don’t want to help it, either. She’s the  _best_.”

Quinn swallows heavily and shakes her head. “It’s wrong.”

“So wrong it’s right,” Santana says as she hiccups.

“No.” Quinn stands up, bringing Santana’s face up too, until they’re eye to eye. “No,” she repeats. “It’s just wrong. You can’t be with her. You can’t want her. It’s against all the rules.”

Santana shakes her head, her whole body moving with the motion. Quinn steadies her as she says, “The rules are stupid.”

“For once in your life,” Quinn says in her no-nonsense voice, the one she practiced on Santana the very moment they found out they were Cheerios, “follow the rules. Get rid of her.”

“Quinn,” Santana starts, her voice oddly clear for someone drunk.

“Get rid of her,” Quinn says again, her fingers digging into Santana’s shoulders, clenching a little harder until Santana finally nods.

“Okay,” Santana says quietly. “I will.”

Quinn nods and finishes undressing Santana, gathering up the clothes as soon as Santana slips under her covers, throwing them into the basket by the bathroom door, tucking the sheet up around Santana’s shoulders. She pulls back when a hand grabs her wrist and she looks down at Santana.

“What?”

“Is love wrong?”

Quinn exhales heavily and slowly and feels her entire body stiffen. Santana must feel it too, because she lets go quickly and mumbles “ _nevermind_ ” and rolls over away from Quinn, burrowing herself under the covers.

The cool night air hits her the moment she steps outside of the Lopez’s front door, closing it quietly behind her. Finn perks up from the sidewalk and lifts his bike off its side, staying on his feet and wheeling the bike towards Quinn.

“She okay?”

Quinn thinks it’s half-annoying, half-endearing that Finn seems genuinely concerned about a girl who thinks he has a Potato-Head.

“She’s fine,” Quinn sighs. “She’ll feel it in the morning, though.”

Finn scratches the base of his neck nervously. “Should we call Brittany?”

Quinn scowls. “No. I said she’d be fine.”

“It’s just,” Finn continues, “Santana seemed really upset about it and some of the guys told me Britt didn’t look to happy. I mean, they’re kind of cool together, right?” Finn shrugs. “Santana never beat me up when Brittany told her not to.”

“You think,” Quinn growls, “that they’re  _cool_  together.”

Finn nods. “Yeah. Don’t you think so?”

“They’re not together,” Quinn shouts, hoarse and bitter. “They never will be.”

Finn looks confused, so she kisses him until he’s quiet and she lets him walk her home and she lies in bed, trying to not to feel anything.

Not angry that Santana would do something to jeopardize her social status.

Not annoyed that Santana would do something so stupid.

Not shame that she probably just broke her best friend into pieces.

Not jealously that Santana fell in love first, especially when Santana swore she’d never, ever fall in love to begin with, because love was an emotion and Santana Lopez just didn’t do that.

She lies in bed and tries not to feel petty, but she can’t fall asleep.

\---

Santana is a notorious rule-breaker though, and if Quinn thought that getting Santana away from Brittany would get her her best friend back, she was wrong.

She walks in on them laughing, Santana’s mouth too close to Brittany’s, she stands with her hands on her hips, eyes silently commanding Santana to make a choice: Brittany or Quinn.

She knows she loses when Santana’s eyes grow dark and hard and the brunette grabs Brittany’s hand, squeezing hard enough so that Quinn can see Santana’s knuckles flush white, pulling her off the floor, untangling their legs, Brittany pulling down Santana’s uniform top. “Come on, Britt,” Santana murmurs, tugging until they’re gliding past Quinn.

Quinn pretends like it nothing ever went wrong and neither of them mentions it.

It doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen; that things didn’t change, for good.

\---

“We’ve got an open relationship,” Puck says for the fifth time, pulling her mouth back to his.

She breaks the kiss, eyes still heavy and wet with tears and shakes her head. “She’s my best friend. We can’t. I’m drunk and fat.”

Puck sighs and lies back on his bed and nods his head. “Babe,” he groans.

“She’s my best friend and your girlfriend,” Quinn repeats, swinging a leg over anyway, straddling one of Puck’s thighs. “That means something.”

“You know what it means?” he asks bitterly, sitting up again, holding her in place. “It means that she’ll let me kiss her in the hallways at school, but do you know where she is right now?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “She’s at Brittany’s, kissing Brittany. And you,” he continues, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “You’re beautiful. Just let me show you.”

So when he leans in to kiss her again, she lets him, because her best friend is off with someone else and because right now, Puck is really doing a good job of showing her what she needs to see.

\---

When the stick turns pink, she’s out of her house at breakneck speed, sprinting around corners and cutting through her neighbor’s lawn and through backyards and when she stops, she’s standing outside of Santana’s house, pounding on the door.

“Christ, Q,” Santana hisses three minutes later, pulling Quinn through the door. “What hell is wrong with you?”

It’s hard to see through her tears, but she somehow finds herself moving up the stairs into Santana’s room, the stick still clenched in her fist. Santana is right behind her, slamming her bedroom door closed and locking it.

“What do you want?”

The venom in Santana’s voice isn’t unwarranted. Quinn hasn’t been really been a best friend in a while and she hardly talks to Santana unless school demands it, and here she is, crying hysterically and Santana has ever right to be rude and unconcerned and confused as to why Quinn’s here.

She can’t speak though, so she thrusts her hand out and collapses to the floor from exhaustion as Santana takes it.

There’s silence and then tan arms are winding around her shoulder and waist, pulling her against the floor into a warm body.

“It’s okay,” Santana murmurs over and over again. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not,” she says through her sobs. “It won’t ever be okay. It’ll never-”

“Shh.”

“Santana-”

Santana starts talking about everything and nothing, rocking Quinn back and forth and it feels like fourth grade, when Quinn’s grandmother died and she crawled into a corner in her room and Santana was the one who managed to get through the door and pull her back out of the room; the one who managed to convince her that things were really going to be okay eventually.

Santana has always been the only one dumb enough to force Quinn to face her emotions, and she wonders, again, why she pushed Santana away in the first place.

\---

Santana berates her in the hallway for everyone to see – “ _My sexts are too hot to delete_ ” – and turns on her heel quickly, storming back in the direction she came, but Quinn follows her, pulling the door to the Cheerios locker room open even though she feels like she’s crossing an invisible line on the floor.

“What the hell was that about?” she hisses.

Santana crosses her arms over her chest. “What was what?”

“ _My man_ ,” Quinn says mockingly. “Since when is Puck your boyfriend?”

 _“What about Brittany_ ” is the unspoken question hanging between them and Santana looks away from their staring contest first, scuffing her foot on the cement floor of the locker room, looking the same as she did when she broke the Fabray’s vase in third grade: guilty and embarrassed and ashamed.

“He’s not,” Santana finally says wearily. “I’m just,” she pauses and exhales loudly, “keeping up appearances.”

“For who?”

“For everyone,” Santana says, as if Quinn should know the answer. “I can’t, this is Lima. And it’s not, it’s Lima.”

Quinn looks away now, because Santana is stumbling over her words and her shoulders are pulled in and in almost ten years, she can count the number of times she’s seen Santana like this on one hand; it’s more unsettling now that they’re older and Quinn, just like before, doesn’t know what to do.

“You don’t know-”

“Yes I do.”

Quinn narrows her eyes; focuses them firmly on Santana’s defeated form. “How do you know?”

“My parents talk, Quinn. My priest talks. The kids in this school? They talk.” Santana looks up and meets Quinn’s gaze. “It’s not nice things. I can handle it, or, at least, I can pretend I can handle it, but Brittany-”

“Brittany wears her heart on her sleeve,” Quinn finishes.

Santana nods. “She’s just as tough as me, and she’s braver than I’ll ever be, but she feels things more.” Santana laughs, humorlessly, to herself. “I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s not true,” Quinn tries to protest.

“It’s what people think. So I can hold her hand in the hall, but we’re best friends. And I could kiss her, but only if we’re alone. So instead of doing those things, I let Puck kiss me and she pretends like she doesn’t care.”

“Does she? Care, I mean.”

Santana pauses before she nods slowly. “She’s never said it, necessarily, but I can see it. Like, when we’re at her house on a Friday, and I’m expected to show up at some asshole’s house for a party, with  _Puck_ , she gets this look on her face and-”

“It’s like you just kicked her puppy,” Quinn says, dropping onto a bench in the middle of the room. Santana sighs her agreement and sits down next to her. “It hurts her.”

Santana makes a noise in the back of her throat that Quinn can’t name, but doesn’t like. “It hurts  _me_.”

They sit there in silence, Santana fidgeting on the bench while Quinn tries to fight off her morning sickness until they hear the bell ring in the hallway.

Santana stands first, awkwardly extending her hand to Quinn. Quinn smiles softly and stands, smoothing down her top.

“Sorry,” Santana mutters under her breath.

“About what?”

The brunette shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest like a shield. “I know you don’t like talking about that kind of stuff.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Santana shakes her head.

“Don’t lie. It freaks you out a little bit.”

“Because you never even told me you liked girls,” Quinn stage-whispers, immediately looking around to see if anyone had slipped into the room while she wasn’t paying attention.

Santana straightens up. “I never said I liked  _girls_. I like  _Brittany_.  _One_  girl.”

“You never said anything,” Quinn repeats lamely. “We were best friends, Santana. You could have at least told me that you felt that way about her before you sprung it on me that you kissed her.”

“Oh, yeah,” Santana scoffs. “Cause you didn’t see that coming.”

“Of course I did.” Quinn shrugs. “It would have been nice for you to tell me, though. If you had told me-”

“I was scared, okay? I was scared that you would hate me, or tell my parents, and then I’d have no one so I chose, alright, because you forced me to. I picked who I could keep and who I couldn’t”

Quinn blinks hard and stares at Santana whose breathing heavy, fists clenched by her sides and she can’t help but feel a sudden rush of anger and resentment. “So you thought you’d give  _me_  up for her?”

Santana pulls back a little, eyes wide, like she’s just realizing what she did; what Quinn did; how they turned out years later.

“You gave up our friendship for-”

“I couldn’t lose her,” Santana says loudly. “You had no right to ask me to choose.”

Quinn’s shoulders sag, because Santana is right. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t want-”

“You thought I would pick you,” Santana cuts in. “Because you were my best friend. And I would have,” she trails off, biting her lip, “I just couldn’t, Quinn. She-”

“Means a lot to you.”

“Means  _everything_  to me,” Santana corrects. “She means everything. I didn’t want to choose anyone, but you made me, with your ‘it’s wrong’ and ‘get rid of her’ comments. You made it a ‘her or me’ contest and you lost because you couldn’t handle me being your friend and her, her,” Santana stumbles.

“Girlfriend,” Quinn supplies.

Santana’s face flares red. “She’s not my girlfriend,” she mumbles.

“But you want her to be.”

Santana doesn’t disagree with her; just stands in the middle of the locker room, scraping the top of her bright white sneakers against the floor.

Quinn bites her fingernail nervously and says, “Well, go for it.”

“Go for what?”

“Ask her to be your girlfriend.”

Santana laughs, and it’s not a exactly real, but it’s not fake either. “Just like that?”

Quinn nods. “Just like that. Just, tell her. Ask her, whatever. Just do it already.”

She doesn’t breathe again until Santana nods her head shakily, and then she smiles for the first time in a while and steps forward cautiously, throwing an arm around Santana’s shoulders, pulling her into a side hug.

It’s medically impossible – at least, this early it is – but she’s almost sure the baby kicks.

\---

As her first act of new friendship, she does damage control after the “ _sex isn’t dating_ ” comment because her own life is depressing; because it could mean all kinds of social backlash if Sue Sylvester ever found out; mostly because Santana looks devastated after Brittany says it like that – like whatever the two of them are doing means absolutely nothing.

The Glee kids – the ones who aren’t ignoring her outright – laugh and tell her they kind of already knew and they were all waiting for the two girls to slip up. The Glee kids who  _are_  ignoring her don’t talk to her, but their eyes say the same thing.

“Your secret won’t get past Glee,” she reassures Santana.

The brunette shrugs her shoulder listlessly. “It should.”

“I thought you didn’t-”

Santana sighs. “I appreciate it, Quinn. Really, I do. But maybe it should get past Glee, so that the whole school knows. So Mike Chang will keep his hands to himself,” she grumbles.

Quinn takes a slow breath and steadies herself and brushes back a loose strand of Santana’s hair. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll make it happen.”

Santana looks up, her eyes dark and heavy and she nods without hesitation. “Make it happen.”

\---

Quinn is sitting on the bench by the bust stop and she’s already late for her appointment, but she can’t get herself to cross the street and go into the doctor’s office, because facing the doctor with Finn was scary; facing the doctor alone is going to be terrifying.

A car honking pulls her out of her daze and when her eyes adjust to the sudden intrusion of light reflecting off the billboard by the office door, Santana is already out of her car and sitting on the bench next to her, swinging her legs and squinting at the building. Quinn’s hands grip the lip of the bench tighter and Santana makes a “ _hmm_ ” noise.

“Are we staring at something in particular?”

Quinn shakes her head  _no_.

“Were you going to head over there anytime soon?”

She shakes her head again.

“So we’re just going to sit here and stare at the ugliest building in Lima?”

Santana has a point: whoever painted the building Pepto Bismal Pink was an idiot. She’s about to nod  _yes_ , but her words catch and she turns to her left, mouth hanging open.

“We?” she asks.

Santana looks over her shoulder and then around them, like she’s looking for someone else. “Well, yeah, Kankles,” she says, no venom in her words. “See anyone else ready to sit in that office with you and watch at some alien-looking  _thing_  squirm on a screen?”

“You’re coming in with me?”

“Don’t make a big deal about it,” Santana says quickly. “I just heard you turn down Puck’s offer to sit in with you and figured you had no one else lining up for this particular job. So,” she says, waving her arms around, “here I am.”

Santana hauls her off the bench and walks her across the street.

It’s not until they get up the handicap ramp to the door that it registers that Santana called her baby alien-looking, but she figures she’ll let it go this time.

\---

There’s a knock at the door and Quinn barely has five seconds to finger-comb her sweaty hair off of her forehead before it’s pushed open and someone slips inside.

“I know we planned on having children,” Santana says, her voice colored with amusement, “but I thought we were going to wait until we had at least taken over the world.”

“I’ve been pregnant for nine months and you say that  _now_?”

Santana shrugs her shoulders and smiles sheepishly. “It’s different now. Now, she’s actually, you know,  _here_.”

Quinn smiles softly and pats the empty side of her hospital bed. “She’s really is here.”

“She’s beautiful,” Santana says quietly. “Everyone thinks so too. The whole waiting room, and the nursing staff and Mr. Schue and the doctors-”

Quinn groans. “Is Puck still showing her off?”

Santana grins widely. “To everyone who doesn’t run away quick enough.” She shifts on the bed until her front is pressed against Quinn’s side, her head propped up by her elbow. “You did great, Quinn.”

“I had help.”

“ _You_  did great. I never thought it would go so well.”

“I never thought I’d end up pregnant,” Quinn admits.

Santana smiles. “No one ever does. But for what it’s worth, you did better than most people would. Handling it, and all, I mean.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “I know what you mean. Stop stammering. It’s unattractive.”

“You know what’s unattractive? You-”

There’s another soft knock that cuts Santana off, and they turn towards the door as Brittany opens it, cradling a bundle of blankets in her arm. “Hey you guys,” she says softly. “Visiting hours are over. The nurse was going to come kick you out, but I figured, for their sake, I’d let you know. And I wanted to bring her back so you could say goodnight,” she says to Quinn.

Quinn holds her arms out and Brittany gently passes her daughter over. Santana‘s eyes soften a little and she reaches out, tracing a line down the baby’s cheek.

“When are you going to babysit?” Quinn asks, smirking.

Santana shakes her head incessantly. “Never,” she says at the same that Brittany squeals a little and says “All the time.”

“Santana-”

“For the safety of my godchild,” Santana says slowly, “we’re not babysitting. You burn toast. I don’t do crying. No babysitting for us.”

Over Santana’s head, Brittany is mouthing “ _we’ll babysit all the time_ ” and Quinn has to hold in her laugh.

“Godchild, huh?”

Santana’s looks up hesitantly and Quinn can see a little fear in her eyes before she steels herself and nods confidently. “Yeah. Got someone else in mind?”

She almost says Rachel, just to see Santana’s reaction, but she shakes her head and says quietly, “You’re the only one stupid enough to take on the job.”

“Yeah, well,” Santana says, swinging her legs around off the bed, hopping down and standing next to Brittany, their hands tangling together reflexively. “I’m not the brightest kid in the world.”

“That one nurse will be back in a few minutes to take her so you can get some rest,” Brittany says, pulling on Santana’s arm. “Let’s let Quinn have a few minutes.”

Santana nods. “Sleep. Sleep for a couple of days, actually. You look like hell,” she says, not unkindly. “When you two come home, I’ll make you guys pancakes. And when you figure out a name for the little one, I’ll finally teach you how to make letters the way I make them.”

Brittany frowns. “You won’t teach me that.”

“I like making you pancakes,” Santana says quietly, turned towards Brittany. Quinn resists making a gagging noise and waits until Santana turns back around, instead.

“So?”

Quinn smiles gently. “That’d be nice.”

“I don’t do nice, but I’ll let you get away with it for now.” She leans forward like she’s going to kiss Quinn on the forehead, but veers down at the last second, brushing her mouth quickly against Quinn’s cheek. “She’s beautiful,” she says again.

Quinn watches Brittany and Santana leave and then looks down at her daughter in her arms and laughs, imagining her growing up and meeting a little girl like Santana Lopez in elementary school.

She looks down at her daughter and laughs and wonders if they even make girls like Santana Lopez anymore.


End file.
